Nighttime's rest evades me of late,
Waking long before the hour of eight.
Sweet dreams and nightmares wake me, amalgamated --
A compensation for day's despairs which I've abated.

From sleep I have this vision of a sun-kissed dusty road--
A familiar place from which this story did forebode:
There came two women in a speeding car who, at my sight, did slow
And both inquired about this path on which I solemnly strode.

I squinted my eyes and I cocked my head,
Saw a traffic boot on their car tire and said,
"This path is a diversion from the realities we've fled."
The two women laughed, and soon away their car had sped.  

I was left in a cloud of their dust, feeling very much alive--
Accepting, somehow fully, that their booted car could drive.
Now I see that none of slumber's sanity did survive,
And yet on that dusty path, I somehow still did thrive.

One page required...
Wrote three.

Lost some sleep to
Explicability.

Selfless spring
Would've ripened
His freedom...

Alas,

Lady Winter oppresses.

"Nothing like a good smoke,"
They say.

Maybe I'll start.

Cowards avert fate,
The tenacious, challenge.

The indifferent...
are happiest.

the outline of your jaw
and the promise of your verse,
with stanzas harboring a coincidentally similar curse,
create timely reverberations
lurking in the limbo of my love's reincarnation,
and freeing me from this cerebral assurance of alienation
caused by characterless cowards wrought with affectation and negation.

Mind is a cello;
Inspiration, its bow.
Love, its timbre.

Poor appetizer;
Longing to be satisfactory
As the main course.

Feeling weak.
Like I am the loser,
Because I care.

All I want
From you

Is me to be
Enough.

Simply enjoy the present,
As if the pending weren't impending.

human hearts yearn.
when not a plea remains,

beating ceases.

Coach, put me in!
I'll hustle, and I've got heart.

writing to realize myself,
realizing I love
what I find.

Me;
Before You, I was
Steeping in an invented
Self.
Comfortably
Immersed in
Oblivion.

You;
You looked at me,  
With kind eyes,
Having seen so much
Failure;
Nonetheless eager
To try.
Nonetheless willing
To be the
Extractor of my
Soul;
Unclogging the drains
Plugged with vile
Misconceptions.
Filtering the murky mere,
Instituting
Clearer waters.
Affirming that I had been
A victim of my
Body—
An excess of cells, merely
Bitter
Of their ephemeral
Purpose,
So concealing the
Intellect—
That which was
Truly sacred.

Us;
Philosophers;
Bathing in our own
Blood.
Thinking and feeling—
Basking in
Questions.
All for the sake of
Some redemption.
Claiming an awareness of
The world,
And dismissing the
Futile cycle of
Our mission.
Nonetheless,
We are eager—
Willing
To try.

You sang me many a whimsical sign,
Yet the firmaments my purpose fought,
And now it seems a misled love begot.
Alas, a wilted rose, my beauty be for naught.  

Yet now that I profess my heart be thine,
Wilt thou allow thine honesty to falter?
Nay, it be not sanctified by thy Father’s altar,
Thus none could blame thee be defaulter.

So, Wilt thou love me with lips like wine?
I challenge thee to sip as thou art free,
And surely for my form your ***** shall pine.
Prithee boy, Wilt thou instead love me?

Prelude,
Skin was scorching,  
Prickling our naked ankles.
Whispers of passion—amounting to the indefinite.  
Excitement overriding fear.
Your smirk—it was scorning my wit, but all the while I was spinning—
Trying to outdo you.
Challenging the norm of lovers before me, despite those many warnings.
And yet, here I am, brushing against your infamous lips,
Having more intentions than I care to share with you,
Because I will be the exception.
I, a determined revolutionist bent on transforming your philosophy.
The inevitable vulnerability, the alleged helplessness found by your touch—
You were all talk, and nothing I couldn’t handle.
___

Interlude,
Something encroaches now.
A force unplanned.
It violates me. It breaches the wall of my veins.
Slithering, swimming —
A parasitic force of which I was convinced I was immune.
Biology’s symbiotic model; forever tainted by our act.
For many a love was given in primal flesh, yet goes unrequited in spirit.
I believed I could break this cycle.
I, the revolutionist
Believed I could topple your deeply set pride.
I believed I could crack your shell and pull out the viscera,
Bleeding, pulsating in between my fingers, and let the mass slide from my hands
To fall upon your chest, floundering in plain view.
I imagined that your eyebrow would raise, your lips would part to form a
Contorted grin, you would sigh, and then admit,
“Nicely Done.”

I believed you would be impressed.
I believed you would be impressed…

____

Epilogue,
Wit is waning.
Skin is cold, rotting… and wasting.  
My beautiful body is rotting.
And I cannot admit that you were right,
Lest I would rot more quickly.
Still unyielding to your claims,
Only so you not think of me as fragile,
Not because I think I may win.
Clinging to the hope that you may someday learn to love
This broken, yearning body.
This fallen revolutionist—
All along a convenient satiation of flesh.